


Nocturne

by clubstocrews23



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: BUT EVERYTHING WILL BE OK, M/M, a bit of angst for your day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 05:58:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18585208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clubstocrews23/pseuds/clubstocrews23
Summary: Martino leaves the party with a bruise on his face and a painful reminder that Italy isn't paradise.or, what happened after the fight at Edo's party





	Nocturne

Tonight was the worst night of Martino’s life, no question about it. 

After the fight, he wanted to take the bus home by himself. It was bad enough to ruin the atmosphere of an otherwise lively party, but even worse to make everyone fawn over him in the aftermath. Anyway, there were only three stops between the party and his own house. Being alone would give him a chance to think. About Niccolò, about being alive, about being out on the street, fuck, even about needing a savior all the time. Maybe he’d find some way to riddle through whatever faint-hearted purpose stopped him from throwing a punch in return when one was thrown at him.

Gio, however, would have none of it. He insisted that he, Elia, and Luca sit with Martino inside the house until they could be sure that the rest of the other boys were gone. When Martino protested, he said they would ride the bus with him. They cared about him so damn much. Where would he be if they didn’t?

The girls all left after Edoardo joined in. Where would they be if they didn’t care?

He took the ride in silence.

He didn’t want his mother to worry, so he went straight to his room upon arriving home. He locked both the front door and the door to his room. Just in case. He could never be too careful, even if he knew there was no way the people could have followed him or gotten into his house. He planned to go straight to sleep, so he could wake up the next morning and pretend he’d been too wasted to remember the night before; his mother would be upset, but he was sure she’d rather hear that excuse over what actually happened. 

And what exactly was that? He’d gone outside to smoke and call Niccolò, just to tell him that the party was amazing and that he should be there. Nothing more, nothing less. He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary, or anything to provoke anger, or anything more heinous than exist. Nico wanted to stay home to watch the season finale of some crappy American show and Martino planned to make fun of him for missing out on the fun in the name of a program. A lighthearted phone call. That’s all he wanted. He barely even had the number dialed before he saw the boys approaching across the street, and next thing he knew—

No way he would tell his mother. She’d flip. She already had enough to deal with, and he couldn’t add to it. 

He settled into bed in the same clothes he’d worn all day. On top of the blankets. From the second his head hit the pillow he knew sleep could not be an option. How was he supposed to sleep, when things like this happened and could happen again at any moment? Instead, he scanned across the dark room for something to look at. Something calming. His eyes caught on the pictures of Niccolò hung in haphazard locations throughout the bedroom. Martino had an Instagram, and he’d posted a photo or two of Niccolò on it before, but in all of them there were other people on the sides so he and Nico could look like good friends. He knew it could be detrimental to post anything explicitly stating otherwise, and if he hadn’t before, tonight proved it. Instead, he taped all photos of Nico and himself to his bedroom walls and framed a few to set on his desk and nightstand. Niccolò, he could look at Niccolò, and that would make everything okay again. As he lay in bed, he reached out to pick up the closest frame. 

“It’s worth it,” he repeated to himself. Nico smiled at him from the picture, as he played some sort of complex song on the piano. Martino himself sat in the background, banging on the keys in random arrangements. Gio took this photo. Maybe Martino should call Gio, tell him that everything was fine and he was home safe. No, he’d received Gio’s pity enough for one day. Instead, Martino dialed the number he didn’t get to finish earlier that night.

“Marti? Are you okay?”

Martino smiled at the sound of his boyfriend’s voice, thick with sleep yet concerned nonetheless. He knew that Nico would hear the story from Gio or Elia the next day, or perhaps earlier from Eva or Silvia via text message, but he didn’t see the point in worrying him over anything right now. 

“Yeah,” he replied, trying not the choke on the words. “I’m fine.”

“Why did you call?”

Martino took a deep breath. He wanted to say everything, talk about walking through the backyard with the joint and running into the older boys. He wanted to talk about how the fist felt when it connected with his cheek, how he knew it would bruise long before the blood sprang to the surface of his skin, how his arms somehow couldn’t move from his sides to defend himself. More than anything, he wanted to tell Niccolò that he really wanted to see him. He needed to feel their skin pressed together, needed to breathe in his scent. But not tonight. Far be it from him to steal Nico’s peace of mind for something as trivial as a fight. “I just wanted to hear your voice is all. Sorry.”

He heard Nico shuffle around on the end of the line, probably sitting up in bed. “Do you want me to keep talking?”

“Yes.” Martino’s voice broke on the word, and he inhaled to mask it.

“Marti? What’s wrong?”

Even from miles away, he could picture the look on Nico’s face. Fuck, another person to be worried about him, just like Gio and Elia and Luca. He hated feeling so helpless.   
“Nothing. Everything’s okay. I just want—”

He heard even more shuffling on the other end as Nico cut him off cold. “I’m on my way.”


End file.
